


A Heavy Heart

by SpoonerizeSwiftness (SplickedyHat)



Series: Heavy In Your Arms [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Abolished Hemospectrum, Drug Addiction, Drugged Sex, F/M, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Prostitution, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/pseuds/SpoonerizeSwiftness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You haven't ever felt bad to pail a brother or sister before, but for some reason you look down on his strange, angry, nubby-horned little face and it hurts inside you, hurts like a motherfucker.</p><p>In a universe where the hemospectrum is long-abolished but never forgotten and the descendants of ancient rebels are looked to as the leaders, a tired purple-blood drowning in his drugs find a lonely mutant on the run from his bloodline, in the wrong place, for all the wrong reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heavy Heart

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on Tumblr:  
> A story about a troll who acts as a “volunteer concupiscent partner" for others who don’t have anyone to avoid certain death by culling and then they realize that they’re actually extremely awfully pale for one of their regulars.

Illustrations and prompt by the lovely [Toastyhat](http://toastyhat.tumblr.com/).

* * *

 

Your name is Gamzee and you make miracles happen.

Like the miracle that’s happening right now under you, with your new sister’s head all thrown back, her chest going up and down so strong and her hair all over the pillow.  It looks nice; you admire, and lose a couple seconds, like little blinks.  Things come in freeze-frames, paintings, and next thing you know you must’ve missed everything interesting—pail’s too full to be all hers, too purple to be green.  You’re lying to one side of where you remember being last and she’s up and walking around, pulling on a towel, all tousle and disarray. 

This time you don’t like, not usually.  Those eyes as were closed and soft before, now they’re turned down and away and hard.  She don’t want to think about you bein’ there.  She erases you and avoids and ignores, and you have learned not to say goodbye to the ones that want to think you ain’t there. 

You clean up as best you can, pull on your clothes and go.

The city is hot today, even though everything’s covered and hooded and the late evening sunlight doesn’t reach the ground.  Sticks to you, comforting on your cold bones. Once woulda made your hair this big miraculous mess, all sorts of fun to look at, but your friends told you to cut it off short a while back and who are you to question your friends, as is bein’ the ones to look out for you?  They give you what you need and everything, all the little pills that make life smooth around the edges.

Sometimes they take them away.  But you’ve been doin’ better in past perigees and they haven’t had to do that in quite a stretch.  And all you have to do is feel good and make feel good alike, and get brothers and sisters through the drone season and lonely times.

Some part of you niggles this ain’t right, but you don’t trust it—because it’s you and you ain’t the type to be trusted with important shit.  Leave that to your friends.  They know better.

There’s a message on the phone as must’ve come in while you and your sister were occupied.  You check it; it’s all nice, ‘would-you-please’ and ‘if-you-would’.  Must’ve come from your sweeter friend then.  She’s a kind sister to you, and she tells you you’ve got a spot a handful of streets down, little mechanic’s shop.  It’s hearts.

She don’t tell you a blood color.

You set out into the sunset-empty streets to make someone another little flushed miracle.

\--

When you reach the place as you’re supposed to end up, there’s a shop on the bottom floor and a big, big guy working there.  He’s got a horn what’s snapped right off at the base, and dark glasses on his eyes, and he has got a figure truly impressive and you can all get your look on at because he's got his sleeves all rolled up tight to his shoulders.  You stop a while to consider, and he looks up at you and gives you the look right in that moment of one who doesn’t want you to even be there.

“If you’re looking for my _tenant_ ,” he says, to the ceiling, the sky, somewhere far and beyond you with disgust, “…you’ll find him upstairs.  He was expecting you.”

He don’t want you to be there where he’s gotta look on you.  You nod your head and you go.

\--

The room he’s given out is up at the top of the place, and the door is shut.  You’ve learned a lot since you started out; you knock, nice and quiet so’s not to disturb.

You shouldn’t have worried about disturbing, as it turns out, because the second you knock the door slams open and there’s the guy you’re there for, standing there a couple heads shorter than you and broader around and glaring like if he had an ounce more will for it he’d tear into you.  You were pretty sure this was supposed to be red.  Maybe you thought wrong? 

You take each other in.  Brother’s a nubby short little motherfucker, with a bush of hair as almost swallows his horns and teeth poking down over his lip.  He’s small, looks to be a hard one, full of fire, and you kinda like the way he looks hard on you, like he’s taking in every single thing.  He looks on you and even with all the dark around you feel fully and strangely motherfuckin’ seen.  He watches you for another second, and then he steps aside and jerks his head like he wants you to follow on in.

It’s clear the second you step a foot inside that he affords for cooling and you shiver a little and try to judge as how respectful to be and how much talking he’s up to allow.  Nice kinda room, about as big as yours with a box on a little table next to the couch—you’d lay money that’s the couch where he sleeps and the box where he keeps sopor.  One window, high and small in one corner, but the sun’s just set and there’s no light to let in now.  It’s dark.  Your brother is already half unbuttoned by the time you look back to him, but he stops when he sees you lookin’ on him again and frowns.

“They said you’re the one who can’t keep a secret,” he says, first thing, and you blink at him because that one is a one that is new to you.  Huh.  Can’t argue that one too much, bein’ that you talk so free to every person who’ll put up with you.  It’s a thing to do, talkin’ to your brothers and sisters as do the same work you do, changing stories and talking about those as have asked for your services.

“Not to save my life,” says the pills, and you sit back and let them talk.  “…sometimes come up with secrets to tell all on my own, I got so much keeping I ain’t motherfuckin’ doin’.”

This seems to answer questions as he hasn’t even asked, because he hums and growls and chews that over for a second.  He raises his brows at you and you smile, all hazy and happy through the pills. 

“…that’s why they sent you,” he says, and you see that’s one of those questions as comes out not looking for answers, all by its lonesome.  Lonely little motherfuckers, you always thought.  “…because no matter how much shit you tell, nobody is going to believe you.”

“I don’t know, bro,” your mouth answers anyway, and you blink and then lay back and let it answer.  “I just do to make a brother feel good, is all.  That’s why they send me anywhere, so far as I’m aware of anyhow.”

“Oh shut up,” he snaps, and you open your mouth to tell him okay and then close it again because you listen to the pills but you listen to them as you’re gonna pail more.  “Come here then—let’s get this over with.”

He is small and loud and angry with everything.  He is angry with you and with the room and he is angry for feeling good the way you coax him to and he is somehow precious to you, in ways you don’t quite get.  Makes you so very happy, but that happy is all unhappy and inside-out. 

He is also made of miracles.

You sit and stare afterwards, all sorts of fascinated, and he takes care of the place your fangs nicked skin on his shoulder like it’ll kill him to have it seen.  He looks hard, angry.  But he doesn’t avoid looking at you.  Keeps his eyes on you uncommon much, really.  Like he’s trying to figure you out.

You like the color you seen under his skin.  It feels like touching something more than you.  Something better.

“Do you ever stop talking?”  He grumbles, and you realize you been talking the whole time, this little stream of words dripping down without your consciousness.  You laugh and stop, and laugh again.  He doesn’t laugh.  “…you don’t know who I am.  Got it?”

Ain’t a problem, since you don’t.  And yet it seems he thinks this is one of them questions as doesn’t need an answer, like you _should._ And you shouldn’t? 

“Bro,” you say, in full honesty, “…I got no motherfucking clue who you are.”

He studies you again, with those strange eyes the color of miracles. 

“…huh,” he says, after a time or two, and he crosses his arms and considers.  You sit, because you got a good sitting spot here and he doesn’t seem to want you out yet.  You are tired, to your bones.  You need another pill, another handful of pills to take the weird, sad sickness out of your guts.  “…hey.  You have any full quadrants?  Like…” he frowns at you and you smile back but it doesn’t soften that frown any.  Doesn’t look angry, as such, not the way you’re used to them bein’ angry at you for existin’.  He’s still digging, trying to figure something out you ain’t got the knowin’ of.  “…listen, do you have a moirail?”

\--

The skinny purple-blood blinks up at you from the couch and you wish he would put clothes on, or at least cover up more.  You can still see the places you clawed at his sides and shoulders ( _wild with the sensations when he eased you out of your clothes, it’s been so long so long and you were right you needed this, you feel so much better so why do you feel so much worse_ ); blood is dripping down his arm in slow purple trickles that make you feel weirdly sick. 

“…moirail,” you repeat after a second, and he scratches the base of one twisted horn _(yellowed fragile malnourished goddamn he’s so fucking_ thin).  You can see him trying hard to think, to concentrate; he looks lost with the unaccustomed effort.  “A _palemate_.  Is there anyone in your diamond quadrant, do you _have a moirail_.”

“ _Do I have a_ …oh!”  He brightens up.  “Moirail, that’s like…the motherfucker as is supposed to keep you up in your chill, right?  Yeah, I got one of those!”

You aren’t disappointed.  At all.  Why the fuck would you be disappointed, there is literally no reason for that.  You’re just surprised.  And angry at whoever claims to be this scrawny excuse-for-a-troll’s moirail and still lets him wander around with that sad, lost smile on his face.  The little part of you that still believes in romcom endings and serendipity and true moiraillegiance ( _the part of you that’s not hiring concupiscent partners in cheap hotel rooms_ ) is indignant.  That little part of you whispers _you could do better than—_

That little part of you gets stamped down by the foot of cold reason.

“Why is that an interest to you, bro?”  He asks, and you jump and realize you’ve been staring at him again.  He has dark lines under his eyes.  His face has the scoured look of someone with harsh soap and  a lot of scrubbing; his hair is a cropped tangle that makes his face look all the more skeletal, and the collar that sits high and tight on his throat gleams at you from the darkness like the eyes of some kind of animal, dull and forbidding.  You feel sick.

“Just wondering,” you snap back, and however dazed he looks he at least seems to realize that you’re upset. He lowers his gaze—draws back his horns a little, _no offense, don’t take offense._   On someone with horns like those, the gesture is actually noticeable.  The hemospectrum hasn’t held any weight for sweeps now, but there’s still something in you that makes your guts feel weird to see him showing such obvious signs of deference to your nonexistent authority.

You’re about to tell him to stop cringing when his palmhusk buzzes on the table next to your couch; he leans down to pick it up and his eyes flick over the message.  Makes a kind of ‘ _eh, not my favorite_ ’ face and drops it back down with a little sigh.  Smiles at you.

“Got to go, bro,” he says, and hauls his massive, bony frame up off your couch.  “—some teal out there as wants a black itch scratched.  Y’all have a great night.”

“Uh.” You stare at him, blink a few times, and then manage to sort of nod as he starts to pull on his clothes.  He just got up from your couch, naked and skeleton-thin in the rising moonlight, and now he’s going to go and…him and some tealblood are going to…

You feel…not disgusted, but something else almost the same.  Something cold and sickening and strange, and you don’t want him to go but there’s just basically no fucking way you can stop him, and the thought of ordering him not to go seems ridiculous.  Even after the Second Rebellion, the overthrow of the hemocaste system and the riots and debates over blood color are mostly gone, some part of you goes tight and nervous at the thought of giving orders to someone who’s looking at you with eyes that shade of cool purple.

…but still, something makes you sit up a little straighter as he starts to go, reaching out a little after him before you can help yourself. 

“Hey.”

He turns around in the doorway. Zahhak must have turned on the lights outside, because there’s a strip of golden light falling on his face from one side, lighting up every skeletal plane.  It makes his eyes strange and makes their weird purple color brilliant in the dark. 

“…what’s your name?”

He looks surprised, and you wonder if anyone who’s ever bought his services has asked him that.  Shit shit shit _fuck_ , you _bought_ him, god, what the hell—

And then, after a second, he smiles a strange, confused little smile.

“...ain’t of no concern, my wicked motherfucker,” he says, and there’s a sort of softness to his voice.  “Been told not to give such things out freely.  But it’s mighty sweet of you to ask a thing such as that.  Makes a brother feel—”

…but he trails off there, with this odd expression on his face, and then ducks through the crack in the door and vanishes into the light.

You curl up on your couch and feel like a piece of shit until you drift off into an uneasy sort of sleep, and you are absolutely resolved you will never see him again.

\--

Maybe half a perigee passes before you see him again; your little nubby brother who looked on you so keen and saw so deep into you.  Who even asked your name.  Half a perigee nights and days and doses and sleep, and less doses and less sleep.

The second time he’s angrier, even more tired, and you’re dragging on long days and smaller doses, floating on the bare edge of sober pain.  You let yourself reach out as you get him laid down and you touch his hair, careful, not to break the miracle you’ve got by being allowed to touch him at all.  He meets your eyes and something reaches between you and it damn near shakes you open. 

You take your hand away and don’t touch him like that again. 

You’d forgotten how he cursed and how loud and how clumsy and how he kept stopping, asking little questions  like he needs to be so sure, so very sure what sounds you make are the good kind.  You almost ask him to not ask one time, because it makes you seize up inside when he does that; when he lets slip he keeps coming back to the same un-flushed place as you find yourself to be in.  You’re neither of you here for pailing but there are drones going from door to door and you press your face into his neck and stop answering his questions until he stops asking.

You’re nearly there and you can tell he’s the same, when you hit the drop.

The threads of warm haze you been hangin’ on to all this time snap like spider webs and you are falling, sudden and sharp, back into your cold bones, your aching horns, your own body and where you are and what you’re doing—it _hurts,_ sudden and sharp, sudden and _sharp_ and behind your eyes and in your insides.  You have a name for what you want on the tip of your tongue, you want something from that ain’t this and you keen and snarl at the pain in your head, all crouched down over him like an animal and touching in all the wrong ways—

Your neck burns and bites like wasp-stings under your collar and you jerk away from him and claw at it but you can’t reach it and the pain in your head gets so you think you’re going to _die_ and then…it just…

Your pusher slows and slows and slows until you can count the seconds between beats.  Your eyes fall half shut as hot syrup runs all through you in these long, slow waves and you almost collapse on your bro, too heavy and warm to hold yourself up.  Your thoughts are moving planet-slow, drifting, too lazy to keep up with what goes on outside your pan. 

You close your eyes and just motherfucking _feel._

By the time you get somewhere close to speed, pail’s gone in his modus and you’re all bundled up in blankets.  He cleaned you off while you were soaring off somewhere distant.  You are so grateful for that, so very, very grateful, and you want to hold on to him and purr for it but moving is too much to ask right now. 

You lie and breathe.

“You’re awake,” he says, after a time uncountable.  You makes vague noises, all sort of searching around for your voice, and then finally make it all click together and croak, _yeah, bro._   “Now tell me what the _fuck_ that was.”

You get a hand up (it’s like liftin’ the world above your head— _heavy, heavy,_ heavy—)and tap your collar with one finger.  He comes close, real close, so close you can count the little hardly-there spots on his cheeks, like the dark strayed off from the dark under his eyes to make little constellations.  You want to hang on him and touch him, not like you did before but gentle.  Gentle and with no purpose except to touch and calm that tired and angry out of him. 

( _There’s a word on the tip of your tongue, a word for what you want, a truth too terrible to let form_ ) 

Your miracle-brother peers at the choke of your collar—he growls and you’re so mellow now it don’t even matter how close those teeth are with regards to your throat.

“What the fuck?”  He demands again.

“…’s my moirail, see?”  You explain, and laugh a little for no real reason as you can put into words.  “…see?  Like.  Friendly little motherfucker.  Gives me my dose when I get all harshed up on my bad self, calms me the fuck right down.”

“Oh my god,” says your bro, and it makes your smile stiff and fall to hear such a tone of distress in his shouty precious voice.  He touches the thing like he’s afraid it will burn his hands, and his fingers shake, claws all tiny skitters on your skin.  “Oh god, oh _fuck_ …are you—are you telling me, _seriously_ , when I asked you if you had a palemate—?”

“It ain’t got hands to pap, sure,” you say, all manner of confused at how he shakes, worried by how he snarls.  “—or any means to shoosh, but they said sopor’ll do me better than shooshing anyway.  They told me so, bro, they wouldn’t lie to me.”  He’s staring like he doesn’t understand, so you add on, “…them’s my friends, as who takes care of me.”  Because he’s never met your friends, has he?  He must’ve talked when he asked for you to come for him, but you don’t have the first fucking idea how they make their deals and talks.

“That—you—” He’s getting all rusty-cheeked, eyes wide, fangs bared and angry—you don’t like it.  It makes you want…

… _want_ …

…you can’t figure truly _what_ you’re craving, so you just smile at him.  Glance down as something in your heaped clothes buzzes, and whatever he was about to say gets choked off and lost when you drag yourself forward to pick up.  It drives out some of the dizzy and dull in your pan, reminds you _if you want this to continue, you do as you should.  Up now._

“Looks like I’m gonna go do a miracle,” you say, but that makes him flinch so you add, real and honest sorry, “…I’d sure like to stay and shoot the wicked shit with you a little longer though, bro.  Or maybe see you ‘round here some time again?”  You do hope, you do want to see him again, and you bite down on the part of you says this isn’t what you want at all, that the last thing you want is the painful way he half-forces himself to touch you back.  You pick up your palmhusk and look; they want you across town, some fancy place.  _“come back+get clean,_ ” says the screen, and after all the dim and the comfort, the glare pounds at your eyes.  “ _< 3, grn”_

Well, if that ain’t a way to cap off a good day.  You ain’t so much averse to pailing black, but you prefer hearts, and it’s been all hearts today.  Nice to know the streak’s set to continue.  You stand and get cleaned up, kinda stiff-like, still with that weird pain in your guts, pull on your clothes and smile, confused deep inside with weird unhappy happiness. 

He don’t smile back, and you want to fix that but you have to go.

You leave him there unsmiling, and it hurts you to do.

\--

Next week they sober you up entirely, tie you down and someone comes and does a cruel piece of work and they whisper the whole time _I heard you think you’re important, you purple-blood piece of shit, I heard you still think you’re better than us_ —in the ache as you come clean of the last of your pills, those words burn right through into your core and stick there like hot irons.

You howl and snap and wish to tear at them but they just laugh.  Later as you lie there, seeing things as ain’t there, hearing whispers and twitching to hurt something, you realize that’s what they wanted the whole time.  Just to have a highblood at your angriest, pail you anyway and say they did.  You have been well and truly used and you are _angry_.

Then your collar stings you again and you forget why.

Your bro calls again.  You take longer and longer to get out of clothes, it’s not drone season no more and he won’t let you do a full job of work on him at all.  You should be troubled at that, because it’s what they sent you here for, but you can’t find it in you to complain when you both know that ain’t what either of you ever wanted from each other.

Most times you just sit and talk, talk for long whiles until you’re called away again.  He tells you he’s expected to do things, things he doesn’t want to do, that someone wants him to be a thing he ain’t.  You pat his shoulder and then feel a fool and go all warm in the face for reasons you don’t fully understand.  He asks and you tell him about the pills; the little green ones as are your favorite and all the others that come and go and change your feeling for the day.  He gets so very sad and tired when you talk about what you do, though, so you don’t like to. 

You’re curled up on your couch with a sopor patch on your arm one night, catching a wink or two when one of your friends comes in.  She’s got the nicest short hair and a sign on her shirt all in green, and when she nudges at you until you wake you’re sleepy and warm-feeling and you smile at her.

“Hello there,” she says, and she pets your hair.  You sigh, enjoy it ( _try not to feel as you’re doing something wrong, like her hand shouldn’t be there_ ) and she smiles back at you.  “Um…we just…we wanted to talk to you.  I’m sorry, I know you don’t…get much sleep during the day—”

“Oh suck it up, Maryam,” says another voice, and you turn and see your other friend in the door.  She’s got on blue tonight like every night and she looks all sorts of awake and, like, intense.  You ain’t equipped to deal with intensity on this particular night, but she’s your friend and you like her, so you don’t mention it.  Takes another effort to peel the patch off your arm for the moment though.  Goddamn but you were enjoying that nap.  “It’s not like he minds!  You don’t mind, do you?”

You don’t really, not if you don’t think about it.  You grin and shrug.  She laughs—a short little thing, all fangs—and looks at your green-eyed sister like she’s saying ‘see I told you’.  The hand leaves your head.  Your headache comes back.

“It’s about that guy who keeps asking for you,” says the blue-eyed one, and you don’t have to so much as give it a thought before you realize exactly who she’s making reference to.  Just the thought of him makes a strange number of things happen deep in you.  “The hemoanon.”

You don’t know why she’s callin’ him that—pretty sure that ain’t his name, but whatever.

“…has he…do you know why he has been asking to see you so…repeatedly?”  Your green sister looks worried.  “…he hasn’t been doing anything excessively unusual or disturbing, has he?  Or contacting you outside of work, or—”

“Uhhh…”

You stall there.  To tell the truth, ‘unusual’ is the way you sit in his room and talk about shit that don’t even matter.  Unusual is how he touched you, and still touches you sometimes, when you do pail—all gentle-like, not wanting at all.  Unusual is…him. 

They seem to see that you ain’t got an answer for them—your green-eyed sister relaxes herself a little.  She’s been worryin’ about you?  You are mightily touched by the notion.

“He’s a pretty shouty motherfucker, but he ain’t bad at all,” you say, which ain’t the half of it—but you are still tired and they don’t need to know the half of it.  “He…”

You trail off there, and they both look at you as you mull over, considering your nubby little brother who gives you feelings so very backwards and confusing and strange.  You’re unsure of how those words want to go, because you ain’t rightly sure what you mean to say at all.

“He just…to see me makes him awful sad,” you say finally, and you remember the look in his eyes when he found out about the collar and pills you call your palemate.  “…to touch me makes him…awful sad.”

“If seeing you makes him so sad,” says your blue-eyed sister, “—why the fuck does he keep asking for you?”

You can’t give an answer for that, but you don’t need to because your other sister steps in and says, all quiet, “…sometimes people do things over and over again, even though they know it’s going to hurt.  Because it’s better than not doing them, or they’re expecting a different outcome, or...for love—any number of reasons.”  She looks at you, and she has got eyes very very even, very clear.  You can’t not but trust her.”…is there anything…interesting about him?  Different?”

_He has blood the color of miracles._

And you open your mouth to say that when his voice sounds up in your head instead, clear like he’s talkin’ over your shoulder, and you see again the scared way he fussed over that bite on his shoulder, how he covered it and covered it and covered it.  _You don’t know me.  You didn’t see anything._

“…not such as comes to mind, sister,” you say, and the lie comes out smooth and slick as slime on your tongue.  “Not as comes to mind.”

You feel a scraping and a pushing at your pan and you sink down in the fog in your thoughts, all hiding away; she hisses at you but you ain’t so fond of when she reaches into you and pulls you out, and your other sister done told you that you shouldn’t do too many things as makes you truly uncomfortable.  So you hold firm on that one. 

“It makes me all motherfucking unsettled when you do that,” you tell her—but she just keeps shoving, so you haul ass out of the fog in your head and just…push back. 

She gasps, all shocked and angry and you kinda wince because fuck, that may have come on a little bit too strong, you didn’t mean to get her all pissed.  And then there’s this sharp jolt all through and you’re pitched back onto the couch, blinking.  Takes a second for you to realize, all distant and dizzy, she’s hit you; back of her hand, knobbly blue knuckles and worn-up painted claws.  Your cheek chimes in to sting, but not nearly so much as you can tell she hoped.  You are sorry for your numbness—you don’t want her to be angry with you like that, it twists up your bile sac and makes your head hurt.

“You’re a dumb _fuck_ , Makara!” Your friend snaps, and she spins and storms out with anger in her shoulders and her heavy striding.  You are upset as well, for her upset; your sister with the kind eyes puts her hand on your shoulder and tells you a few words of comfort, _it’s okay, she’s just in a bad mood, I’ll talk to her, get some sleep_ —and you nod and smooth your patch back on your arm. 

You sink again, and you dream your brother is huge—or you’re small—and you’re cradled up in his hands and hidden away from all of everything.

You sleep well that time, and do not wake uneasy.

\--

“My friends been asking questions about you,” says your purple-blood— _the_ purpleblood, he’s not _yours_ and that’s stupid, stupid, _stupid—_ and he looks melancholy and perplexed over all of these new challenges in his life.  There is a deep, nasty bruise on one of his cheeks, and you _burn_.  “…but I didn’t tell them about all those miracles you got inside, bro, no worries.  I recalled you weren’t the type as likes to have that spread around.”

Someone has been asking questions.  The bruise on his face.  The long delay in the answer of your request.

Things piece together and you don’t like where they’re going.

But first things first, and somehow this has become the first thing.

“Well good for you, you actually kept your trap shut for once in your life,” you say, and he already knows you enough to smile a little at that, like it means what you wish it meant because you are incapable of just saying _thank you good job you’re a stupid godawful_ brave _son of a bitch_.  “…did they hurt you?”

“Huh?  Oh…nah.” He blinks up at you, all big moony purple eyes and dopey grin.  You can tell he’s lying, because how the fuck does he expect you to believe he got that bruise, falling down on his way to a job?  And the worst part is you know if you push him he’ll tell you.  He’s too high to come up with a lie right now, even a bad one.

They’ve been doping him more heavily now, ever since a few visits ago.  Sometimes he can barely make his way from one end of a sentence to the other.  Sometimes he’s in a weak-kneed, panting mess from whatever they’ve fed him, pupils blown wide, clammy-faced and desperate—those are the times you have to pail him, still, and even when he’s naked and you’re doing your best to help him through whatever they’ve given him it feels like you’re taking care.  Like you’re soothing him, pacifying him.

You refuse to think this.  Your heart is beating fast enough as it is.  You settle down on the couch, and he keeps an eye on you but doesn’t make a move to get your clothes off, or his own.  You never get over the weird shock that goes through you when you see his hands resting on his knees, pale grey and spidery-thin with knobbly, protruding knuckles.  His wristbones stand out under his skin.  He’s a mess of bones and drugs and blind optimism, you’re a freak on the run from people who want you to be—

…well.  Anyway. 

You sit and contemplate the two of you sitting side by side, and it comes to mind how utterly disastrous you both are.

“Those people who are looking for me almost found me again today.”

The words choke out into the air and for a second you wish you could swallow them back down, but he doesn’t judge or ask or try to push for more.  He leans a little and looks at you and says, “…I thought you looked outta your chill, my brother.”

\--which is ridiculous, because you have never had a ‘chill’ to be ‘up in’ and how the fuck would he know you well enough to tell by now?  You swat him on the arm—he huffs out a little laugh and you think you see his hand twitch a little like he wants to give you a friendly hit back.  He doesn’t.

“I know you don’t want what they want you to all up and want,” he says, and you jump a little, on edge. Your blood is still thundering in your ears.  “…but I just gotta know really quick, bro, is somebody out to do you harm?  Like, bearing some real serious ill will on you, y’know?”

You have to admit, at least, that whatever you hate about Him (the douchebag who you hate, _platonically),_ his headhunters have never tried to drag you in by force.  Although now that he’s put a bounty on your head, there are going to be a lot more people looking for you and you doubt they’ll be as scrupulous.  You are completely aware he just wants to know where you are so he can _talk_ at you, but the rest of the opportunistic douchebags who are going to be after you now have no way of knowing that. 

You’ll be lucky if nobody tries to beat the shit out of you and drag you to him.

“I don’t know what they’ll do if they get me,” you snap, and he frowns.  You bristle. “Stop looking at me like that!  God, how the fuck is it even your business?!”

“Whoa,” he starts, taken aback.  “Man, hey—”

“ _Get.  Away.”_ He doesn’t move away, doesn’t stand up, and his presence is suddenly suffocating, he’s here fo—you _asked_ him here to— “—I said _GET AWAY FROM ME!_ ”

“Bro,” he says, and reaches out for you, like he’s going to try to soothe you, like he’s trying to _pap_ you and _holy fucking god_ , this can’t be happening no no no that look in his eyes can’t be what you think it is, that same feeling you’re been fighting with this whole time, this _can’t be happening_ — “—bro, for serious, it’s okay.  C’mon, motherfucker, _shhh_ —”

You smack his hand away.  He flinches back, eyes going wide and shocked and the shock and betrayal in his eyes drills right into you and tears at you like claws.  “ _Get away from me!_ ” you snarl at him ( _because you_ can’t, _the two of you, it’s a thing that_ can’t happen _and if he touches you you’re not going to be able to tell him to stop)_ “—don’t you fucking dare!”

He huddles up and goes small, pulling his hands away like you’ve burned him.  “ _Sorry_ ,” he mumbles.  “…sorry, I didn’t—sorry.”

But he only pulls away for a second before he worries at his lip and reaches for you again and this time even though you forget to watch your claws and they catch and tear at one of his hands, he doesn’t flinch back.  He reaches for you with blood running down his arm, and his hand threads through your hair and strokes your cheek and some part of you tries to fall to pieces. 

“ _Bro,_ ” he says again, and he wants this so badly, so very, very badly—you can see it in his eyes.  “ _Shhhh._ It’ll be okay, I swear to you, you’ll be okay, I…I’ll…”

“Like you can talk,” you snap back at him, and he winces.  “You pan-dead moron, you’re basically hopeless, you’re a goddamn pitiable _wreck_!”

He smiles, but it’s not the same dopey grin he’s smiled at you so many times before.  It looks pained.  “You proposin’ some shit of a pitying nature to me here?  Because—” he opens his mouth—shuts it again, and then takes a deep breath. “…because if that—if they’re red, I can’t—I don’t—”

Oh god no you can’t do this, but you can’t _not_ do this because if you don’t do this—

…if you don’t do this you think you’re going to die. 

“Now you’re the one getting worked up,” you say instead, and wow, it’s hard to talk around the massive lump that appears to have taken up residence in your squawk blister.  “…sh— _shoosh,_ you disgusting cold-blooded freak.  Don’t make me pap you.”

The look on his face makes a jolt of actual, physical pain shoot through you, and then a wave of absolute relief and warmth—and then more pain, and it won’t _stop_. 

“—what if I—uh…” he fidgets, and then grins at you, hopeful and almost scared.  “…what if I kinda _want_ —”

You throw yourself forward and hug him hard. 

The next few minutes, or hours, or _nights_ , are a mess.  You’re lost in a tangle of hands touching and exchanging touches, shooshing and murmuring and oh god this is probably a full-on feelings jam isn’t it, but you don’t really give a fuck.  You tell him so many things you know he’s barely going to remember, you pour everything out even though you know there’s no way it’s a good idea.  He’s just…he’s a concupiscent _hire_ and you’ve only known him for a perigee and a half, but here you are babbling to him about your freakish blood and your stupid fucking ancestor.  You tell him about how you can’t stay anywhere for more than half a sweep, you tell him how you had to stop contacting everyone you’ve ever been friends with, you tell him how hard it is to make your way when you can’t tell anyone the color of your blood. 

He mostly holds on and mumbles indistinct, sleepy words of encouragement ( _and secrets, so quiet you almost don’t hear him, secrets that make you want to_ cry) and for some reason that makes it easier.

Your legs end up tangled together at some point; by the time you run out of shit to say for a moment his arm is wrapped around your waist and your fingers are working absently around his horns.  You’re close, finally so _close_ to someone, but both of you still dressed with no urge to change that and he’s got his face buried in your shoulder and it is so much fucking better than you ever even dreamed it would be.

And then your other hand trails slowly down the side of his face and your fingertips brush cold metal. 

The jolt of protective pity runs right through you like a stab in the guts before you can even comprehend what you’re feeling or figure out why it makes you hurt inside.  Then you remember, and all of a sudden a throb of possessive anger runs through you.

He called this fucking thing his _moirail_.

You sit up a little and he shifts into the warm spot you left—sighs as you keep rubbing his horns, and goes still.  That’s good.  He’s constantly exhausted, if you can be sneaky enough you might even be able to get the thing off of him without waking him up.  You make sure to keep one hand on his head, letting him drift off further and further, and trace your fingers along the metal until you—ah.  There’s a tiny catch on the back.  Nothing he couldn’t open on his own if he wanted to, but why would he want to?  It gives him ‘ _them good feelings_ ’, _‘the buzz’_ , _‘the fog_ ’.  He’s been on drugs for so long you’re surprised he even has a functioning pan still—or at least, functioning enough to walk and talk (inanely) and breathe and occasionally even come out with startling flashes of insight that always make you feel a little off-balance.  He shifts and mumbles a little as you feel out the contours of the dull metal.

Then you flick the catch open and immediately he goes tense all over.  He starts to jerk upright, he paws weakly at your hands, but you shoosh him and pet his horns and he shivers himself still again.  He looks terrified. 

“—bro, no—!”

“You’ll be okay,” you tell him, and he shakes his head fast and jerky, swallowing hard.  “You don’t need them.”

“No, that’s not—”

And then you flick open the collar and your hands are slippery and wet.

Two thick needles on the inside of the collar drip purple blood and lime-green sopor concentrate across your floor as you drop it in sudden shock.  He makes a choked, panicking noise and grabs for his throat; there’s a massive purple stain growing on his chest, coating his hands as he grasps helplessly at the horrible deep holes in his neck. 

For a second you’re paralyzed, but you’re used to the smell of blood and cleaning it up quickly, even if it makes you sick—you jump up and race across the room to your first aid kit, swearing the whole way.

By the time you pump styptic gel messily into the wounds he’s very pale and his eyes are half-shut and unfocused; the bloodflow slows but doesn’t stop as the gel hardens.  He’s not living by the minute now, but he’s still in serious trouble if you don’t get him to some kind of…if he doesn’t…

There’s only one person you can go to.

You still have the number you were given last time you talked to The One You Hate—the time when you screamed curses in his face and stomped out—you’ve never quite brought yourself to delete it.

He picks up on the first ring.

“Nitram,” you say, “—I swear to god if you say a word or ask any stupid fucking questions, if I hear a single fucking _um_ or a stutter then this deal is off.  You want to talk?  I’ll talk.  But you have to do me a favor first…

\--

Your name is Tavros Nitram and you really aren’t the emperor, seriously at all. 

…but since everybody keeps insisting so much and treating you like you are, you suppose that makes it kind of pointless to keep saying so? 

Since everybody’s going to treat you like you’re in charge anyway, you’ve done your best.  The Sufferer’s heir is someone you’ve wanted on your side for a long time; there are plenty of people that supported the Summoner in his coup, but a lot more who followed him because they believed in the Sufferer and he looked up to the Sufferer and you guess they assumed that there would be more…well…Sufferer.  Involved in the rebellion. 

Karkat is short, square, hard as horns and it only really takes a second of watching him to finally understand how one troll has stubbornly resisted every single advance you’ve made to him for more than a sweep.  He has that look you see on murderers and martyrs—a sort of harrowed determination, like he’s dead set on something and he’s not going to let anything get in his way.

People with that kind of determination kind of scare you, a little, but he doesn’t attack you on sight at least. 

The purpleblood he called you in to save is curled up when you come in, still unconscious, and Karkat’s just sitting there watching him.  He looks up when you come in and bares some teeth at you but it’s not nearly up to his usual standards, as far as snarling goes.  You’ve seen about a thousand scarier things since they made you ruler, anyway.  You sit, and wait for him to say the first word.

It doesn’t take him long.

“I fucking hate you.”

Well that isn’t all that surprising, he’s already told you that.  It’s a little bit disheartening though. 

“I know,” you say, and then, frankly, “…it sucks.  I wish you didn’t.”

“That is exactly the kind of retarded shit I’m talking about,” he snaps, “—you’re so fucking _sensitive_ , it’s disgusting.  How the hell are you still the emperor, do you, like, cry yourself to sleep over the state of the outer planets?  Read every single complaint letter from every corner of the empire?“

“Sometimes,” you say uncomfortably.  “…and yes.  I do.  Actually I have people who, um…read them for me and screen the similar ones so I can get a consolidated version of every—” He’s glaring at you.  “…was that a rhetorical question, um…meant to antagonize me?”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes, I got that part.” 

You sit there in angry silence for a while.  The purpleblood shifts a little in his sleep, arms and legs and eyes twitching minutely as he dreams whatever fever-dreams he’s getting from the withdrawal. 

You’ve been getting reports about what they’re finding in the substance sample from the collar Karkat took off of him.  It makes you…tired.

“…I’m going to need to talk to him when he wakes up,” you say, eventually, and Karkat twitches.  “Not a lot, just…what he was doing is illegal, you know.  There’s a system for that kind of thing, and registrations and a required minimum pay, all sorts of things.  And getting people to work for free and coercion with drugs and things is definitely, uh…outside the system.  Like, _far_ outside the system.”

“Didn’t take too much _coercion_ ,” Karkat grumbles, still not looking at you.  “…he’s a moron.  Never even asked for money, just went ‘Oh, you want me to go pail some random guy and you’ll give me drugs?  Awesome!’ Fucking unbelievable.”

“A lot of people that blood level can’t get work,” you say, kind of pushing a little bit, and you see his eyes flick up to you and back away again.  “A lot of them can’t get proper schoolfeeding either, so they don’t know this kind of thing is wrong, that there’s more options than the ones they take.  I mean, most of the ones who know about the laws make good money this way, but on their own terms and screening their own customers…I guess it’s all about…uh…novelty value?”  You know you’re keeping your voice steady, but you also know your ears are turning brown.  You cough a little, awkwardly.  “I’m trying to get actual equality to stick, instead of…basically just the old hemospectrum in reverse, but trolls…”

You trail off, not sure how to say what you mean, and he hisses between his teeth.

“…trolls are basically a bunch of nook-sucking pestilent boils on the seedflap of the universe,” he…finishes for you.  You guess.  That’s not what you were going to say, but alright, you suppose that gets the point across?  “Okay, Nitram, what are you actually here for?”

“That’s it,” you say, honestly.  “I just wanted to let you know, I need to talk to him.  And also, give you some idea of why I’ve been, uh…bugging you so much.  Sorry.  I wish I could leave you alone about this, but it’s important, for the empire.”

He glares at you.  You give him the most innocent sorry look you have, and he only holds your eyes for a few seconds before groaning and dragging a hand down his face, exasperated beyond words.

“How do you even stay sane, Nitram?”

“Because,” you say, and for a second you hesitate—but you just have a feeling and you advance, a little timidly, “…I have a really good moirail.”

His eyes flicker back to the purpleblood.  His face goes rusty red.

Yeah.  That’s what you figured, pretty much.

“Your quadrantmates are just as welcome here as you are,” you tell him, and haul yourself to your feet slowly, stifling a groan—the muscles around your wings are cramped from leaning over your desk all day, you have to go find someone who you can trust to rub your back.  Well, speaking of your wonderful palemate…?  “Just…think about it?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t growl at you either, and you glance back in the doorway just in time to see him reach out a little and thread his fingers through the purpleblood’s and hold on.

\--

You wake up sore and nasty with the kinda headache that means you’re sober, and you are fucking freezing.

You work through all the bits you can feel and move everything a little, just to test what hurts.  Nothing really.  Everything, sort of.  Your neck, kind of a lot. 

And motherfuck, but you are _starving_.

You’re on a couch.  Not your couch.  Not a couch you know.  You’re wearing clothes as you don’t recognize.  Your collar has been replaced by bandages, wrapped nice and neat around your throat where the metal used to go. 

This is…weird.  Okay.  You would normally be pretty chill with waking up in a weird place, but you’re sober and you are having severe issues with being chill.  You feel in danger.  You feel _vulnerable_. 

You feel like one of your hands is really warm.

You turn your head some—neck burns, and you remember how it felt the first time they put the collar on you, told you to _never take it off, never_ —and you find a scrubby little head of hair and two nubby little horns. He’s holding on tight to your hand and his head is leaned up on the couch next to you.

You get a hand lifted and dropped and touch his horns, and he makes tiny noises in his sleep, little chirps and happy sounds.  Settles into a purr, all rusty like the color his face turns when he’s embarrassed at you.  You have a sudden, mighty need to do this more often; make him soft like this, open, not scared of himself.  This precious, shouty, angry, sad little brother of yours.

It’s such a beautiful thing, this troll disease called moiraillegiance.

You get in a few good, soft, endless minutes of petting, and he’s pretty much all melted by the time your claws accidentally clatter-click on his horn and he jumps and jerks up.  You are sad about that, for motherfucking sure.  It was starting to send you right back to sleep, listening to him purr and running your fingers through his tufty hair.

“I—wha—” he blinks around, looks just as confused as you were when you woke up—then his eye falls on you and he sits up and all straight, like he’s nervous.  Man, you just had him all shooshed, what the motherfuck has he got himself tensed up about now? “—oh.  Oh, you, uh.  Hi.”

“Hey, man,” you say, and he tries to sit up and pull his hand away.  You hold on, because you don’t want to let go.  He goes red again.  Does that an awful motherfuckin’ lot for someone who doesn’t want folks to know his color of blood, but hey, the first time you saw it you figured him for rust.  No reason someone else wouldn’t do the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

He blurts it out like he’s been waitin’ to say it, which is motherfuckin’ weird because you can’t even think of a thing he’d be sayin’ sorry for, let alone something so important as he’d have to wait next to you to tell you.  Goddamn but you are tired.

“Sorry for what, bro?”  You yawn, and he looks terrible worried.  You don’t like it.

“I shouldn’t have taken—I should have listened to you,” he says.  “I shouldn’t have taken that collar off you, you knew it was a bad idea—”

 _(Your blood slipping through your fingers, all down your arms, pouring down and sudden, cold terror_ don’t want to die—)

Oh.

“…yeah, I guess you should’ve,” you say, and your voice comes out just a touch more cold than you would have wanted; he hunches down in his chair, upright motherfucking miserable.  You soften up and sit forward a little, unhappy with his face in that twisted up expression.  “—no, don’t motherfuckin’ do that, bro.  Good to have the thing gone, for all I’ve got a killer ache in my pan, and there wasn’t a way to get it off without bleedin’ me like that.  I’m just, uh…” And all of a sudden, _whoa_ , is that how embarrassed feels?  Shit, you forgot, you been hazy and chill for so long and now all of a sudden your skin feels all weird and hot and you fall over the words.  “—‘m just glad it was you, okay?”

He goes redder.  You stay purple. 

He seems to remember something.  He scoots forward towards you in his chair, and you see the steeling-up in his shoulders as he meets your eyes square and solid.  “I never said,” he says.  “I’m, uh…Karkat. Vantas.” He sort of reaches a hand, letting it hang in the air.  “And.  Yeah.  You already know I’m a freak.  Not that that’s a big secret now, I guess. And.  I.  Uh.  I’m.  _Goddammit_.”  More deep breathing.  But when he looks up at you again his words come out clear and sharp and certain.  “I’m pale for you.  Okay?”

There is a lot going on there and you can’t parse it out because thinking is hard, but that still makes something huge and weird and warm blow up inside your thorax and you have trouble breathing to mumble back, “Gamzee Makara— _bro, I am so pale back for your miraculous motherfucking self you have_ no idea,” and reach out for his hand.

You miss.

You both stare at your hands for a second, just kinda hangin’ there in the air a few inches from each other, and then all of a sudden he makes this weird noise and—oh.

Oh, he’s laughing and it’s a funny hard, sharp little noise and it makes your head feel all full of warm air.  You laugh too, and it makes your throat hurt but it feels so good, so very motherfucking good.

“Get some sleep, you pan-shattered disaster,” he says, when the laughter finally dies out, and he reaches over and picks up a patch.  “—wow, fuck, this stuff is like 99.999% pure.”  He directs a look at you and you have that feeling again—you are _seen_.  “…If you put this in your mouth then _so help me god,_ I am going to reach up your nook and turn you inside-out by the horns.  Go to sleep.”

You can’t help it—you laugh again, and you’re still laughing as things go warm and hazy and slowly dim to blackness.

\--

You wake up again and there are lights on, soft yellow ones, and your bro is making wicked noise.  Wow, but he’s got a way to use words. He’s bawling out some poor motherfucker as you can’t really see—bawling him out quiet-like, for him, but still loud enough as it makes your head buzz a bit. 

“Bro,” you say, and your throat kinda pipes up a little in favor of not moving too much—you clear it a bit and try again. “ _Bro_.” 

He don’t hear you.  You frown, prickly mad all of a sudden; raise your voice and snarl at him.  “Motherfucker, _get your fucking chill on_.”

He turns for that.  Notices you’re awake, see you ain’t happy, and leaves off shouting without another word.  The angry fades away again, too heavy to take its own weight, and you flop back as he comes over and sits down in the one chair that’s sitting there, then levels a truly motherfucking terrible look at the guy he was talking to, like he wants him to fight about it.  He don’t, apparently, because he don’t weigh in or come over. 

“Hey,” he says, a little awkward, kind of harsh but kind of soft.  “Feel any better?”

“A shitload,” you say, and not just to ease off the tight look on his face.  Whatever was in that patch, it’s done miracles.  Even your throat is barely sore still.  “what’s goin’ on?  Where are we?”  You blink, and then finally think to worry.  “…my friends know where I’m at?  Hate to make ‘em worry.”

Your brother’s teeth go tight, but he doesn’t yell at you.  “We’re across the city from where I was staying before,” he says, and you kinda want to sit up and shoosh until he stops talking through his teeth like that, but you’re still heavy and numb and you elect to not for the moment.  “Your… _friends_ —fucking— _ugh_ , whatever.  We’ll find them, don’t worry about them.”

“That’s another thing I meant to tell you,” says a voice, and both of you turn.  It’s the other motherfucker, as Karkat was getting all salty on when you woke up.  “We found them.  Vriska Serket and Kanaya Maryam.  Cerulean and Jade, we’re, uh…well, I already sent someone out to get them, we can talk to them later.”

You consider him, and find him to be…big.  Yeah.  Big.  Tall, broad, strong and solid lookin’ with _wow_ holy _shit_ massive horns, check out this motherfucker.  You can’t figure his color for a second, then you catch up in his eyes and they are brown, so very, very brown.  He’s got golden rings hangin’ from his ears and one in his nose and he looks all tired and kinda sad and worried, which is a shame since he’s got a smile so very nice.

Karkat doesn’t seem to like him, though, it worries you kinda.  But he doesn’t start yelling at him either, so maybe he’s just cranky tonight?  Bro’s a mystery. 

“Gamzee,” says Karkat, all sort of snippy and cold and nasty, “—this is the—”

“Tavros Nitram.”  The brother with the big horns talks over him loud and fast and they stare at each other for a second like, _damn_ , there’s all sorts of crazy shit going on here you can’t even begin to _contemplate_.  Karkat looks mightily pissed again. 

Tavros Nitram turns back around to you and smiles, and you are not accustomed to having folks smile at you like they’re a little nervous of you, it ain’t a thing as normally happens.  Not like he’s scared you’ll bite or like he don’t want to be talkin’ to you, but like he makes a big fucking deal of your regard. 

“My name is Tavros Nitram,” he says again; clears his throat and holds out a hand to shake.  You take it, really slow, trying to get a read on him and why this and here and now, and then get distracted really sudden by how fuckin’ _warm_ his hands are.  “Sorry I heard you were in…some trouble?  So Karkat called me to help.”

So he’s a hate-friend?  Hard to tell with your bro when he screams at all the same. 

Something hums; Tavros reaches down and pulls out a shiny little palmhusk.  Turns to Karkat. 

“…they have them,” he says, and smiles at you, really nice and reassuring.  “You can go talk to them now, ask the guard outside the door.  Gamzee, can we walk?  If you feel up to it, or if you prefer, you can sleep some more, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were tired—”

You swing your legs off the couch and find they’ll bear your weight.  You’ve got a spare finger’s width on him height-wise and hornless, but he’s got shoulders much broader than yours and he looks solid.  Makes you better, having him there, as does all his worry and care.  Right nice motherfucker.

“Don’t know how much motherfuckin’ help I can be,” you warn him, and he smiles regardless. 

“Then we can just talk?”  He says—and your bro Karkat can make questions into orders, this guy can make every word into a question.  He intrigues your eye and mind and you follow him on and out as Karkat breaks off from you with one last little pap on your shoulder and goes to talk all quiet-like to a brother with a pair of totally sweet-lookin’ shades and badass horns.  Motherfucker is also tall!  You’ve found a place all full of tall people. 

You wave a little at him; he gives you a look over the tops of his glasses and he’s got eyes as match his glasses!  Motherfuckin’ miraculous.  Doesn’t wave back, but doesn’t sneer at you either.  Karkat waves you off, gives you the little head-jerk as means _get your ass moving then!_ Tavros is standing waiting for you, all sort of nervous smiling. 

You think you like it here.

\--

Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you are feeling the eventual and unfortunate results of blind devotion. 

You do not recognize the uniforms of the people who brought you to this place, but you do not think they are standard law enforcement—if only because the standard law enforcement does not do much in general, even to people who have committed much more serious and public crimes than you and Vriska. (Mostly Vriska, you have to admit to yourself.)

You do not recognize the short, angry troll who comes storming in a few minutes after you are taken to a room and left alone there, but his voice does sound vaguely familiar.

The first thing he says is, “—you’re the fuckers who’ve been hiring out Gamzee Makara.”

Oh.

You are keenly aware of the tension that grows in your shoulders as he walks closer.  Vriska, on the other hand, lets out a raucous laugh and slumps back in her chair.

“What, bad service?”  She drawls, and waves a hand dismissively.  “…I can get you a half-price refund or something, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble—”

“One,” says the customer, and points a finger at her so sharp and sudden it’s like an attack.  “ _Shut the fuck up_ , he hasn’t done anything wrong and I hate you.  _Two_ , you’re not here because I got a bad fuck, you’re here because you are a pair of sick exploitative bitches and you have done some sick nasty shit to his thinkpan!”

“Yeah, like he has two functioning braincells to rub together anyway,” scoffs Vriska, and smirks at him.  “—you’re the hemoanon, aren’t you?  Listen, asshole, he signed a _contract_. “

“Oh, I bet he signed a _FUCKING CONTRACT!_ ” the anonymous customer roars at her, and you jump a little.  His voice is sudden and powerful for his stocky build, and there’s a certain…a sort of _passion_ in him that makes you feel like you’re looking at the sun.  You remember the distant, wistful expression on Gam—on _Makara’s_ face when you asked him about his customer and think maybe you’re starting to understand a little of what’s going on.  “What, you held his hand and made his signature for him while he was too high to fucking _talk_?  Or did you just jump into his head and take a little ride?!”

“Oh, like it even matters.” Vriska yawns—you see it for what it is, a careful show of how completely _uniiiiiiiinterested_ she is, but he snarls.  His almost nonexistent horns are tipped forward, he’s showing all his teeth, his hands are clenching and unclenching like he wants to claw her.  If she pushes him much further, there’s going to be a fight, and Vriska is very strong, of course she is, but something about his strangely infallible confidence makes you very, very uneasy. 

“I’m sure we can negotiate,” you try, and the customer whips around to direct that fearsome glare at you instead.  His eyes are round and angry and red—in the light they look oddly bright, _bizarrely_ bright. 

“I don’t want to _negotiate_ ,” he hisses.  “I want you to pay him back for _every single time_ you took advantage of him!”

 _That_ makes Vriska sit up.  “Come on!  What the fuck?!”  She shoots onto her feet and gets in his personal space, leaning till they’re nose to nose—she’s just barely taller than him but he’s broader than her and he’s not backing down.  “He’s a _purple-blood_.  He’s street trash!”

“He’s my fucking _palemate_!”

“Oh well let me just patch up your bleeding heart for you!”  Vriska snarls back, and you jump up and situate yourself between them before you even have time to think about it.

“Vriska,” you say, soft and warning, and Vriska hisses at you.  You glance back over your shoulder.  “—Sir, please, I would very much prefer that we discuss this in a civil way!”

The customer is breathing hard—you think you see the glint of rusty tears at the corners of his eyes before he draws himself up and glowers up at you. 

“ _Fine,”_ he says.  “ _Civil_. Great.”

Vriska sneers and throws herself back into her chair with bad grace, but the immediate danger of a fight goes out of the air. 

“Now,” you say, as soothingly as possible, and try not to feel like you’re every desperate auspistice ever, throwing yourself between two people with no clue how to keep them from tearing you and each other apart.  “…I believe you’re saying that you have become fond of Gam—of our—” you stop, perplexed, and then shake your head and carry on.  “…anyway.  I can understand why you would expect some form of recompense for his work—I believe we can arrange that.  However, the full amount of payment for all the work he has ever done unpaid is not feasible.  Because—!” you hold up a hand as he draws breath to start screaming again.  “— _because_ the money used to keep his habits well-supplied must be taken from the pay he would have used to buy the necessary pills anyway.  I am not saying that our employment was morally sound, but I would also point out that, without our assistance it is likely that he would have overdosed himself or bought lower quality, dangerous drugs without knowing better.”

The customer glowers at you.

“…and who addicted him to those in the _first fucking place_?”  He asks, grating and guttural, and you can’t look him in the eyes.

“I know,” you say, and your voice comes out much smaller than you intended.  “—and I know that we are likely to see severe punishment for…for what we did to him.  But for the sake of…our continued well-being afterwards—” and you have to resist the urge to glance back at Vriska at that, but you can’t suppress the way your eyes flick to one side and he blinks and then stares at you harder, like he’s trying to read some message that you didn’t know you were sending.  You swallow hard, and soldier on.  “…I would rather like to keep enough money to take care of us, sir.”

“…Maryam, right.”

It’s not a question.  You don’t try to answer, and he doesn’t give you time.

“Maryam, do you know how that collar you fitted on my _moirail_ worked?”

The collar was not your idea, but you do know the basics.  “…when he became agitated, the collar would release a small dose of sopor into a vein in his neck,” you say, and the customer tosses his head sharply, baring his teeth—even without horns the body language of the gesture reads clearly and you find your hands curving to take full advantage of your claws.  You curb the impulse.  “—what?”

He picks something up from the couch he was sitting on when you arrived and shoves it into your hands; it’s…

“You see those needles?”  He snarls, and you turn the collar over in your hands.  You do indeed.  They are very sharp, angled to cut skin, almost absurdly large and you remember how Gamzee barely talked for days after Vriska put that on him, how you assumed he was just lethargic from the increased level of sopor in his bloodstream.  “That thing went off once while I was with him, he…” his lip curls at the memory, but not just in disgust—there’s a sort of pain there as well.  “…he wasn’t _there_ anymore, like he passed out but kept moving.  You know how much sopor it would take to do that?”

You turn to Vriska; she doesn’t look fazed but neither is she denying it, and there is bile rising in your throat.

“Oh my god, Vriska,” you manage to keep your voice almost steady, but it’s an enormous effort.  “—Vriska, you said we were going to take care of him—”

“We _did_ take care of him!”  Vriska rolls her eyes.  “—jeez, you guys are so _naïve,_ it’s like I’m talking to a pair of whiny pupas!  Look.  That idiot couldn’t have found himself a job if one came up and bit him in the ass, let alone a place to stay or food or the kind of drugs we got for him!  God.” 

“Maybe I should let him come in here now that he’s not drugged out of his mind and you can _explain_ that to him,” he snaps, and Vriska’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly on the arm of her chair. 

She lied to you.

She lied to you about everything, every reason what you were doing was okay, every assurance that softened the _wrong_ of what you were doing, she _lied_ and she is not sorry.

“Sir,” you say, and it takes everything you have not to look at her again, to remember why you have done what you did and why you are doing what you are about to do.  “…I would like to answer any questions you might have.  And…and I have the ledgers.  The money exchanges.  Everything.”

You hear Vriska start to curse, start to yell at you.  It doesn’t matter. You _refuse_ to let it matter. 

Not this time.

\--

Your name is Karkat Vantas and if you are going to be a leader you are going to damn well _lead._

\--

Your name is Tavros Nitram and you’re so much happier as a friend than as an emperor.

\--

Your name is Kanaya Maryam and you have done what’s best for the girl you loved.

\--

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and this time miracles have happened to you.


End file.
